


Big, Dark Secrets

by olly_octopus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Communication issues like a mf, Drinking Games, First Kiss, Fluff, Harry Potter Being an Idiot, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Truth or Dare, grass is green dickheads what else is new, hi lads guess who arrived in time for the plague, i hope everyone is safe & happy and this is my gift 2 u, saving lives is sexy thanks nhs, xxx
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23767876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olly_octopus/pseuds/olly_octopus
Summary: Big, dark secrets are not a featuring part of Draco’s life anymore, and any kind of ‘secret’ that has not already been milked for all that it’s worth by the Prophet is hardly worth telling. What’s he meant to say? ‘Oh yeah, when I was three I stole a bar of chocolate and it’s been eating me up inside ever since’? The only secret that Draco can possibly think of is something that he’s barely even admitted to himself and would never admit to anyone else, not least a room full of his peers.Secrets can be dangerous things, Draco knows. And admitting that an ex-death eater wants to make out with boys, specifically with The Boy Who Lived until neither of them can breathe isn’t exactly the smartest thing to be bandying about in the open.***Or, a game of truth or dare goes awry.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Big, Dark Secrets

**Author's Note:**

> I heard u guys need ärtîsts in these hard times and until one of those guys turns up you can deal with me <3

It all starts, as many good stories do, with Blaise taking off his shirt in front of a group of twenty or so fellow cheering eighth years.

Eighth year is not in standard practise for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but what with the minor tizz of Voldemort returning and trying his best (which turns out to be pretty poor) to murder Harry Potter and most of the school while he was at it— eighth year seemed to be really the only way to go as far as achieving a half-decent set of qualifications to go out into the world with. And Harry Potter, along with the vast majority of his year has chosen to stay on. It’s a wise decision overall, although there is the occasional exception.

Tonight, is one of those exceptions.

You see, what with study pressure and gruelling revision sessions that can no longer be procrastinated with the excuse of ‘Voldemort is determined to mug me behind the greenhouses this week’, Harry has been forced to actually focus on school and education in general for essentially his first year since arriving at Hogwarts. It is arguably not as much of a flawed system as it was last year (thanks Wizard Nazis) as Kingsley Shacklebolt has mercifully allowed students to learn skills that will help them avoid the dilemma of Being Murdered— but Michael Gove’s influence will never Cease and pressure is on twice as hard to pass exams to prepare for a future none of them expected to arrive.

So, students take it upon themselves to arrange ~entertainment~ for their rare nights off, mainly consisting of bitching sessions, tales of Who Put A Turd In Flitwick’s Pencil Drawer and that one glorious evening where Seamus burst in with the grand reveal that the house-elves brewed cherry gin in the kitchens and they were free to have it as they liked. 

That, naturally, encourages drinking games like none of them have ever seen before, including such good Christian activities as Never Have I Ever, Drunk Jenga and Harry’s personal favourite: Hermione Gets Carried Away And Recounts The Time Viktor Krum Asked Her What Pegging Was In Front Of Molly Weasley. (This usually ends the night on a cheerful note with Ron slinking off to bed with some mumbled excuse before she’s even managed to include the bit about Percy choking on his tea when Krum brought up the benefits of prostate stimulation and announcing he had important work to do upstairs.)

However, tonight Seamus has suggested Truth or Dare, which astonishingly none of the students brought up in the Wizarding world have even heard of. 

“Truth or dare?” Ron echoes when Seamus first brings it up. “Isn’t that, like, a strategy they use when trying to get people to confess to crimes?”  
“No,” sighs Hermione, eyeing them all up over her copy of Feminism For Aspiring Witches. “If only it were.”

“It’s like- you take it in turns to ask someone ‘Truth or dare?’” Seamus tries to explain over the sound of a cork being popped off a bottle. “And then, if they pick truth then you ask them a question that they must answer truthfully. And if they pick dare, you get to choose a task for them to carry out and it can be anything. Like, from performing the chorus of A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love to taking off all their clothes and worshipping the moon on the grass outside I guess. But if they don’t want to do the truth or dare, they can just drink instead.”

“Sounds good,” says Ron, already clearly gearing up to get shitfaced. “Sounds like it’s circle time, lads.”  
All assembled students (those who didn’t fancy going to bed at half past seven like a few unnamed killjoys) gather around in what can’t honestly be described as a circle, some in armchairs and some preferring to just vibe by the roaring fire as Seamus hands out shot glasses to them all.

Dean has quite cleverly hexed the glasses to make sure that anybody lying on their turn would have their glass turned red and would have to drink twice, which at least makes the game a little more entertaining as well as giving it higher stakes.

“You all heard the rules?”  
There’s a general collection of nods and affirmations from around the room, a couple of half-hearted whoops from the braver ones. Harry stares down at his own glass, the house-elves’ cherry gin automatically rising to just below the brim as soon as it’s in his hand. The deep crimson liquid reflects a slightly distorted image of his face back at him as the telltale cheer of a game beginning draws his attention back to the room at large.

Seamus starts, because of course he does.  
“Blaise! Truth or dare?”  
Blaise has the grace to raise his eyes from his own glass to face him.  
“Dare?”  
“You’re brave,” Dean Thomas pipes up from his place by Seamus’ side. “Last time I picked dare when Seamus was in charge I had to stay in the hospital wing for three days.”

Seamus seems to think about his options.  
“We’ll start off the evening light, shall we? Intensity level can increase as we go on. I dare Blaise to take off his shirt.”

Blaise shrugs to the frenzied giggles of a few girls and the snorts of a few others. “No problem.” The shirt is unbuttoned and cast aside like he’s glad to get rid of it, and it’s claimed cheerfully by Parvati. 

The evening goes on. 

Ron is asked whether he’d shag a teacher for an O, Pansy is dared to give Neville a brief lap dance (which is very brief indeed), Dean is dared to go ginger for the night (and drinks to Ron’s outrage), and Hannah is asked if she’s ever had any experience with a girl. 

“Draco,” gasps Hannah, once she and the rest of the room have finished killing themselves laughing at her recollection of the time that McGonagall accidentally walked in on her kissing an unidentified classmate in a storage cupboard and spent a week religiously avoiding cupboards and closets in general. Snape’s bewilderment when she made him go fetch some textbooks that were two feet away from her in her own cupboard was, in Hannah’s own words, “priceless”.

“Draco,” she continues, wiping away tears of mirth from her eyes. “Uh, heh, um. Truth or dare?”

And then there is Malfoy. There is always Malfoy. He is, as Harry has bitterly noted after a solid few weeks of discovering he is impossible to avoid, omnipresent wherever Harry seems to be and even more attractive than he was before eighth year began. His hair is longer for a start, not long enough to put into a serious ponytail or long enough that it can be successfully pushed behind his shoulders, but just the right length that he can pull it back into a half-top knot with the rest of his hair hanging about his ears. Seventh year and all its hardships and pressure had made him gaunt, but eighth year’s return to a sense of normality and stability has made him so beautiful that Harry wants to remove his own eyes with a teaspoon.

He is taller, more filled out around the edges, eyes still darkened but with a sort of peace that Harry doesn’t think he’s seen since second year. He interacts with others more, is more polite, more liked, and the absolute audacity of it all almost makes Harry wish they were having childish spats in corridors again just so that he could keep more of Malfoy to himself, keep his attention for longer, keep the younger years from Gawping at him like he’s Michelangelo’s Statue of David or something. 

“Truth,” says Malfoy, effectively snapping Harry back to reality with a jolt. Hannah raises one eyebrow and exhales. “Er. Okay. What’s your biggest, darkest secret?”

Harry wants to take a photo of Draco’s face and frame it. The expression only lasts a second, though, before his features mold themselves back into impassiveness and he leans back against the sofa. Just for a second, Malfoy catches his eye and then he blinks and it's gone as though he doesn’t even know he’s in the room. There’s dead silence in the room as Malfoy seems to mull it over. 

Then, he takes his glass, tips his head back and downs the whole thing in one.

***

As far as big, dark secrets go, Draco Malfoy has been unwillingly more or less an open book with dog eared pages, bacon stains, sentences underlined and several library stamps inside the front page ever since about sixth year. 

It’s very important that you understand that this is not down to Draco’s own willingness to be vulnerable and open— rather one of the many irritating hang-ups about being You Know Who’s slave for a while. The thing is, The Daily Prophet, Ministry of Magic, and in fact that vast majority of the Wizarding World are not altogether keen on someone with a dark mark running around of his own free will and have made it their solemn duty to keep such a close eye on him that he can barely even bring himself to wank anymore. 

Never mind that he was barely 16 when he joined, completely impressionable and terrified for his and his family’s lives. Never mind that he cried himself to sleep almost every night. Never mind that he’s been diagnosed with PTSD, an anxiety disorder and a very bad case of The Whole World Hates Me caused by a pretty widely held belief that he’s been shagging the Dark Lord every night for two years.

No, Draco Malfoy is evil, according to Victoire Marshall (dedicated ruiner of people’s lives since she replaced Rita Skeeter as the glorified gossip columnist for the Daily Prophet) and must be placed in jail like his father. Presumably her backup option if this turned out to be unachievable was to just make up rumours of Draco’s involvement with everyone from Grindelwald to Dobby the House-elf’s evil twin, since that's what she’s been doing so well for six months. 

“I don’t know why she hates me so much,” mutters Draco to Pansy as they sit in the library with roughly eleven billion books on the ethical problems with hexes open around them. “I haven’t even met the women and she’s determined to get me lynched on the steps of the Ministry.”

Pansy shrugs.

“Maybe she hopes that if she spreads enough lies then you’ll personally come to her house to burn all her notes and she can sue you for arson too.”  
“That’ll be it.”

Big, dark secrets are not a featuring part of Draco’s life anymore, and any kind of ‘secret’ that has not already been milked for all that it’s worth by the Prophet is hardly worth telling. What’s he meant to say? ‘Oh yeah, when I was three I stole a bar of chocolate and it’s been eating me up inside ever since’? The only secret that Draco can possibly think of is something that he’s barely even admitted to himself and would never admit to anyone else, not least a room full of his peers.

Secrets can be dangerous things, Draco knows. And admitting that an ex-death eater wants to make out with boys, specifically with The Boy Who Lived until neither of them can breathe isn’t exactly the smartest thing to be bandying about in the open. In fact, him and Pansy are the only two people in the world who know of his preference for the male sex, and Draco plans to keep it that way until he can move to South Africa or something and change his entire identity.

Pansy simply puts her feet in his lap and tips her head back so that she can fully recline in her chair.  
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Draco. You know that here, nobody thinks you’re a deatheater. You publicly apologised to Hermione for all those times you’ve not- well- seen eye to eye and you’ve even been volunteering to help the younger years with quidditch; how can you possibly be the same person you were when you were sixteen? Victoire can stuff her quill up her arse and then broomstick ride all the way to Essex for all we care. Even Harry Potter is being civil with you these days.”

“Malfoy?”

Pansy jumps, and falls out of her chair and lands on the floor with a very loud clatter. She scrambles back to her feet almost immediately to see who else but a very guilty looking Potter standing behind her.  
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—“  
“Merlin, Potter, can’t you warn a girl before you creep up behind her?”  
“I’m really sorry, Pansy, can I help—“  
“No, no, I’ll get my stuff together. I need to go ask McGonagall about my homework anyway. You boys don’t kill each other, yeah?”

Potter nods, bewildered, and Draco seriously thinks about chasing after Pansy before she can leave him alone in this hellhole of a situation.

But before Draco can think of a reasonable excuse to go running for the hills as far away from Potter’s jawline as his legs can take him, Potter takes Pansy’s seat like it’s been specially reserved and Draco gives up on existing.  
“Hey, Malfoy,” he says, attempting what he probably thinks is a friendly and not at all awkward smile.  
“Hey, Potter,” replies Draco. “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“Problem? There’s no problem, I just… well, I wanted to talk to you about what happened last night.”  
“If I had a quid,” mutters Draco under his breath.  
“Yeah, um, you know that we’re on good terms now? You realise that I’m not your enemy anymore, right? You’re allowed to share things with me if you want to, and if there’s ever anything that’s bothering you I’ll be totally cool with it if you want to talk to me or whatever.”  
“I’ll bear that in mind,” says Draco. Harry doesn’t seem to want to take this for an answer.

“You and I… we’ve been through a lot, you know?”  
“Oh, I know.”  
“Yeah. So. And if it’s something about your family or your past or whatever, then—“  
“Then Victoire Marshall would’ve already exploited it to get her take of it on the front page of the Daily Prophet; really, Potter, it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”  
“But it is!” Harry retorts, frustrated. “It is something I want to concern myself with, because despite what you may think, I really want to make eighth year the one year that we can settle our differences and build bridges! I want to... I want to be your friend.”

Something catches in Draco’s throat and he looks away from Potter as his eyes prickle.

“Heard that one before, somewhere.”  
“I know you have.” Harry leans forwards across the table, trying to get Draco to look him in the eyes. He can feel his warm breath on his cheek. “And now that we’re both in better places, I’d like to come full circle. Don’t you want that, too?”

Draco wants it. Draco wants Harry Potter more than he wants oxygen.  
“Yeah,” he admits, and it comes out sounding slightly strangled. “Yeah, I want it.” I want you, he thinks, but can’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“Potter, I—“  
“So tell me what’s bothering you.”  
“I can’t. You don’t understand.”  
“Try me!”

Draco gets up, knocking several books to the ground and Harry leaps up with him. Draco turns on his heel and walks away.  
“Malfoy, Wait!” Potter calls after him. “Your books!”  
“I’ll get them later,” says Draco through gritted teeth as he continues to walk, heart pounding in his chest. Potter had been so close. So, so, close. A chair scrapes behind him and Draco curses under his breath and walks faster. He’s not even sure where he’s going, anywhere to get away. Anywhere where he doesn’t have to be even more vulnerable than he already is.

Potter follows, because of course he does; just trotting in Draco’s wake like a puppy. Draco wants to kick him. He can’t bring himself to.  
“I brought-“ he pants, “I brought some of your books.”  
“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Malfoy,” he repeats almost pleadingly, coming round to stop in front of him and block Draco’s path. “If you talk to me, I could try and help you.”  
“Merlin, Potter, I always thought people were exaggerating when they said you had a hero complex. You think you can fix everyone, and anyone who doesn’t want to be fixed must have something to hide. Isn’t it enough that we’re not on opposite sides of a war anymore? Isn’t it enough that we can be,” he swallows, “friends?”

“Friendship starts with trust,” Potter says firmly. “Look, we can put these books away and then go back to the eighth year dorms? I know I could take a break from studying and maybe we can talk then.”

Draco stares at him for a moment.  
“Sure. Whatever.”

His eyes fall from Harry’s face, and stop at the books in his hands. His heart stops in his chest.

“What’s the problem?” Potter asks, following Draco’s gaze down to the books. Draco watches, head filling with a fog of panic as Harry’s fingers brush over the top copy of The Highs and Lows of Hexes, lift it off to reveal the second: A Guilty Hexer, and when his hand covers that Draco starts forwards.

“Wait, Potter,” he blurts out, and Harry glances up at him. “Maybe… maybe we should talk, right now, I mean— if you’ll just put down the books—“  
“I don’t understand you, Malfoy,” sighs Harry. “Blowing hot and cold. We shouldn’t talk, we should talk. Thank you for the books, leave them alone? You’re absolutely impossible.” Potter flips the books over, revealing a leather-backed book right at the bottom.  
“No description,” Potter muses. “What—?”

Draco strides forwards and kisses him, hard.

It’s a clumsy affair, trying to find a good angle, but when Harry drops the books in an act of mercy and shock and his hands come up to cradle Draco’s face it feels as natural as breathing. Harry Potter smells like woody cologne and soap and tastes faintly of cherries and feels like a home he doesn’t have. 

They draw back, for breath.

Then Harry kisses him again, and Draco feels like he might faint. Again, and again, and Harry’s mouth moves down Draco’s mouth and chin and throat as though if he leaves one section of his skin untouched then they will both surely perish as Draco just repeats his name over and over until it feels like a prayer in his mouth. “Harry,” he whispers, and “Harry”, and “Harry”, as the Boy Who Lived sucks purple marks into the pale skin of his neck.

“Draco,” hums Harry into the hollow of his throat.  
“Draco?” comes another voice from behind them and Harry’s mouth leaves his skin almost instantly. The loss is devastating.

Blaise stares them up and down, perfect features unreadable from where he stands at the other end of the corridor. Harry is breathing hard where he stands before Draco, adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Draco can scarcely hear Blaise’s next words over how loudly his own heart is beating.

“Impressive,” he says. “Didn’t know you would have it in you. Congratulations, Draco; this is a new one even for me.”

He turns and leaves. Draco’s hands tremble by his sides as Harry turns back around to face him.  
“What did he mean by—“  
“It doesn’t matter.” Draco’s heart is going so fast that soon Flitwick will be able to use it as percussion for the next school concert. “It- it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for bringing you into this.”  
“Sorry? Why would you be—?”  
Draco drops to his knees and scrambles to collect all his books together before Harry can get a good look. He is still standing over him, confused and beginning to sound anxious.

“But you wanted- you did want?”  
Draco squeezes his eyes shut so that he can’t see Harry’s hurt expression. “I- I’m sorry. I should’ve never- please don’t…?”

Harry inhales sharply.  
“Oh. I see. Well in that case, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you to yourself.”

Draco gets to his feet, and by the time he can open his mouth to collect some piss-poor explanation for his behaviour Harry is already gone, leaving nothing but the faint taste of cherries and a cold ache where Draco’s heart used to be.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 comment = 1 more crumb of serotonin for us in these hard times xx


End file.
